


make monsters of men

by defcontwo



Category: Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Gen, seriously a whole lotta gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revenge is a dish best served -- how?</p>
            </blockquote>





	make monsters of men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallMeBombshell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/gifts).



> a what if? fic set around Red Hood: Lost Days #6

Revenge is a dish best served -- with a bullet to the head, with a knife to the throat, with flesh burning, burning and lungs giving out, with so many infinite possibilities, so many creative ways to kill someone, to make them pay, but -- 

But how. 

But will it be enough. 

(Will anything ever be enough). 

Too many questions and no easy answers. There’s blood underneath his fingernails. It’s a Tuesday afternoon. 

Jason lights up a cigarette, ignores the caked blood. Today, today he’ll do it with a knife. 

\+ 

There was this game that he’d play on the street. 

Tomorrow, I’ll get a job. The next day, a long lost family member will find me. They’ll be rich and kind and they’ll take care of me so that I never have to do the ugly things again, so that I’ll never have to wake up with an empty stomach and ache like I’ll never be full again. 

The day after that, mom walks through the door, clean and alive and whole, the illness and the drugs and the slow wasting away nothing more than a bad dream, a feverish nightmare that he cooked up. 

It’s stupid, yeah, stupid and dangerous but -- 

comforting, also. 

\+ 

On Wednesday, it’s poison. 

Slow-acting, painful -- the sort of vicious favored by Ra’s al Ghul. Not the sort of thing a Bat would condone, not something so ugly, so rooted in bitterness and self-indulgence. 

But no. 

You can’t account for all of the factors, all of the ways it could go wrong -- poison is reversible, for every toxin there is an antidote. For every action, there is a reaction. 

Poison won’t work. 

He’ll come up with something better tomorrow. 

\+ 

This one’s his favorite and here’s how it goes: 

Gotham, after midnight. The sky’s so dark, with the stars obscured by pollution, that you’d think you’ll never see the daylight again. 

Breaking into a secure Arkham cell is easy if you know how and golly gee, Daddy-O, you’re the one who taught me how. Garrote wire tucked inside the front pocket of his red sweatshirt, hoodie up to obscure his face from any cameras. 

Sneaking up from behind has no honor but neither does murdering children, so they’re about even. You fight fire with fire, that’s the lesson Bruce never understood. 

“Familiar with your Bible?” 

He will say this, a mocking curl to his lip. Talia had him staying in too many Marriotts, you see. There’s always a Bible in a Marriott and he gets bored -- he always liked to read, devoured books like a lion would its prey. 

He had an A in English, _before_ , fuck you very much. 

“Something, something, blah blah blah, _oh_ the things we do to children.” Wire goes taut, fingers go white. A struggle because cockroaches never go quickly, you always gotta work at it. 

And then, nothing. Wire goes slack and it’s nighty-night for the clown, so long, good riddance. 

He takes out a knife, slits the throat. You never can be too sure because the devil’s in the details, and a good Robin never forgets to dot the Is and cross the Ts. 

There’s blood underneath his fingernails, again.

It’s a Thursday. 

\+ 

That was a lie, a bold-faced lie, that one’s his second favorite, _this one’s_ his favorite: 

The blunt metal of the crowbar comes down over and over again and there is nothing else but the sounds that it creates, the damage that it wreaks -- the crack of bones and the squelch of blood. Clowns don’t call for help, don’t beg for mercy -- it’ll be high, ghastly inhuman cries of pain, of anguish, and nothing else until the Joker’s blood has seeped so far into the pavement that it’ll never wash out, the only grave marker he’ll get. 

\+ 

Or maybe it’s this: 

Batman, standing tall and triumphant over a broken body that’s purple and green and red all over. 

“I’m sorry, son,” he’ll say. “I owed you this,” he’ll say. “I love you, I miss you, come home,” he’ll say. 

A lost boy falls into his father’s arms and cries. His hands are clean. 

(Fat chance). 

\+ 

_I know where the Joker is._

Six words and they change everything. 

Before, it was hypothetical. Fantasy to keep himself warm at night, to keep the nightmares at bay, to satisfy the bone-deep cravings that scream _Lazarus_. 

Before. 

Now, reality. Now, he sets plan into motion. 

Only, which plan? 

\+ 

_If you’re careless with him, you’ll die._

Knock on wood, smart birds don’t make the same mistake twice. 

Here are the options: 

Gasoline and the click of a lighter. Or: the semi-automatic tucked into the holster at his hip. Mixing and matching could get messy. It’s one or the other, and he’s gotta make a decision fast. 

Bruce isn’t here. Bruce is half a world away and none the wiser. And it rankles, it does, like a snapped criticism in training, like the voice of disappointment when he was benched, like the look of condemnation as Felipe tumbled down, down, and went splat on the sidewalk. 

And that’s what it’s all about, really. You make the tough call, scumbag goes splat, and this godforsaken world is a little less shittier than it was. 

Time was, his life fit into two neat categories. Before Bruce and After Bruce. Now, it’s Before Joker and After Joker. 

(Before Death and After Death, but he ain’t no fucking messiah). 

Only, fuck them. Fuck the both of them. 

Jason pulls out the gun and shoots the Joker neatly in the head. Twice, you see, just like Mikey Corleone taught him. 

There’s no blood underneath his fingernails. 

It’s a Sunday. 

\+ 

Seventeen missed calls, all from Talia al Ghul. He smashes the phone underneath his bootheel and tosses the remains into the harbor. 

She finds him at the airport about to board a plane to Prague. Hair neatly pinned up and a thousand dollar pantsuit, and she’s the scariest fucking thing on two legs that anyone in the airport terminal has ever clapped on eyes on. 

He’d be intimidated but he’s seen worse, known worse, shot worse in the head, wham bam, thank you, ma’am. 

“Was it enough?” 

Jason shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out.” 

(Tomorrow, it'll be enough).


End file.
